


Our Lady

by Zimra



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, F/F, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1465099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimra/pseuds/Zimra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haleth and her family must help their people and each other pick up the pieces after the attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Lady

The stockade is in ruins. Built in haste by Haldad and those who chose to follow him, its wooden walls crumpled easily under the strength of the enemy forces once there were too few warriors to defend it. Now its remains are scattered from riverbank to riverbank, mingled with the wreckage of the rickety buildings that once sheltered inside it. The dead are everywhere, and there is nothing to distinguish those who fell outside the wall from those who fought to hold back the breach, except for the stench and appearance of seven days’ decay. 

Haleth finds that she does not even have to give her people any direction; they are used to living in households that manage their own affairs, and everyone knows what needs to be done. Adults search among the bodies for friends and relatives, carrying the dead to the large grave that is just an expanded section of the trench outside the stockade. Children stumble through the chaos, salvaging food, weapons, and anything else that might be useful in the days to come. 

The strangers gather farther away, calling out to each other in their language as they regroup and collect their own dead and wounded. Their leader, black-haired and ruddy-faced and covered in Orc blood, dismounts from his horse and approaches her. She’s a small woman and he towers over her, taller and more heavily muscled than the men among her people, and with hands that look like they could crush her windpipe without much trouble. Haleth doesn’t stop to look at him; she’s tired, and doesn’t have the time or energy to crane her neck. 

“You are the leader of these people?” At least he speaks their language, though he’s barely intelligible, and even his accent doesn’t mask the doubt in his voice. 

She nods, then makes her way over to the nearest body - a girl she recognizes as Miras, Barin’s eldest. Squatting down beside her, Haleth sees that she’s still alive, though her face is a mess of dark bruises and her right arm is so twisted that the bone has pierced the skin.

“And this is all that’s left of them?” he asks, surveying the horde of ragged, starving folk picking through the remains of the stockade. “I can’t believe you held out this long.”

She means to glare at him with all the hate and grief she feels for Haldar and her father and the fourteen-year-old girl lying broken on the ground before her, but the muscles in her face refuse to move and all she can manage is an empty stare. 

“If you aren’t going to help, you can leave,” she says, speaking slowly and clearly so he will be sure to understand. She opens her mouth to call for a stretcher, but before she can say anything the Elven leader has crouched down beside her. He picks up the girl as though she weighs nothing at all, and she hangs limply in his arms like a battered doll. 

“Tell me where you are keeping your wounded,” he says, stumbling over the words slightly. “I will send my healers there to assist your people.”

“We’ve cleared a space behind the wall,” Haleth says, pointing towards the last standing remnant of the stockade. Danyal is there, she knows, stitching wounds and comforting children and refusing to rest even though the baby will be here any day now. 

He nods, and walks away in the direction she has indicated. Haleth only watches him go for a moment before she struggles to her feet again and moves on to the next body.

~

They work straight through the day and do not bother to rest before holding the funeral; everyone knows it’s terrible luck to put such things off, especially when there are so many dead. The enormous grave is now filled in with bodies and covered by sandy dirt from the riverbanks. The people form a loose circle around it and those on the inner layer grasp hands, ringing it completely to keep the souls of the dead from escaping into the world. 

Haleth stands just inside the circle on the edge of the grave, with Danyal beside her. They are to preside, chosen unanimously and without ceremony. Haldar’s wife has washed her face and combed her dark red hair, which sits elegantly on the back of her neck in a braided knot. She is an inch or so taller than Haleth, heavily pregnant and noticeably thinner than her sister-in-law, as though every scrap of nourishment has gone to the child growing inside her. Haldan stands close to his mother’s side, and she grips the boy’s shoulder tightly with one white-knuckled hand. Her other hand hangs at her side, fingertips barely brushing the back of Haleth’s. 

Many of the strangers have left now, taking their wounded back to wherever they came from. Their leader and a number of his men remain, though Haleth has not spoken to the elf chieftain since their first conversation; she’s had far too much to do. 

“He must want something from us.” she told Danyal earlier as they worked. “Why else would he wait?”

The other woman frowned. “What could he possibly want? We have nothing.” 

Haleth had no answer for her then, and she has none now, so she ignores the strangers watching from a respectful distance and grasps her sister-in-law’s hand. Their eyes meet, and Haleth nods, letting her know that she is ready to begin.

Danyal sings first, her voice high and quavering, though it soon grows stronger. When the time comes, Haleth joins with the harmony; her tone is harsher and cracked from fatigue, but the pitch rings true and the notes lock into place. Danyal’s grip on her hand is painfully hard as their voices twine together, and as she listens to the sound ring out into the grey sky Haleth feels something loosen inside her. 

The third verse passes, and some part of Haleth realizes that her voice is starting to hurt, but she hardly cares. At the fourth and final verse, the rest of her people join in, wearily, raggedly, dragging the pace of the music until at last the song grinds to a halt. The final chord fades away into a deadened silence.

The circle breaks apart, and in moments Haleth is surrounded by people crying, wailing, hugging friends and family members and lamenting their shared grief. Danyal turns to face the crowd, offering and accepting consolation, but Haleth stays where she is, silent, letting the sounds and people swirl around her. Only Danyal’s anchoring hand keeps her from losing herself completely in the chaos. 

~

“You should rest before speaking to him,” Danyal protests as she helps Haleth out of her battered armor with steady hands. “We don’t know who he is, or what he wants, or whether he means us harm. Make this Lord Caranthir wait until tomorrow, until you’ve gotten a chance to get your strength back.” 

They’ve returned to the tent that Haleth hastily constructed to shelter the two of them and Haldan, where Danyal has carefully stowed all their remaining belongings. Grimacing, Haleth strips off the rest of her clothing, which is caked in grime and dust and blood. 

“You’re right - we have no idea what he means to do. I can’t let him think I’m so weak that I need a full day of recovery before I can even negotiate. Do we have any more clean shirts?” she asks, her face impassive. Danyal nods and hands one to her, along with a formal vest covered in heavy embroidery. Haleth stares at it for a moment, then at her sister-in-law. 

“If you’re really going, you may as well look presentable,” Danyal insists. As Haleth pulls on the shirt and the vest, Danyal dips a clean rag into a basin of water and wrings it out before handing it over. “Wash your face.”

Haleth obeys, though she suspects that removing the layer of dirt from her skin will only make her bruises and the dark circles under her eyes stand out. She accepts the piece of dried meat Danyal shoves into her hands, for though her first thought is to protest that the other woman needs the nourishment more, the look in her sister-in-law’s eyes tells her she that she will not win this argument.

Her last pair of trousers are torn and dirty, and it’s been years since she’s been tall enough to borrow Haldar’s clothing, so she dons a clean skirt with blue embroidery at the hem - her mother’s work. She fastens Haldad’s old belt and sword around her waist, battered as they are, and stretches out her arms, presenting herself to Danyal for inspection. 

The other woman shakes her head, almost smiling. “Your hair,” she says gently, and Haleth remembers that her hair has been in the same braid for more than a week, practically glued in place with dirt and sweat. Only now does it occur to her that this might be a problem. 

They quickly realize that, despite their best efforts, there is nothing that can be done about the hair while it’s in this condition. Danyal motions for Haleth to sit down, then places the basin on a stool and moves it closer. Obediently Haleth leans back, resting her neck against the edge of the basin as Danyal unties her braid. It isn’t very comfortable, but the cool water and Danyal’s fingers running through her hair are soothing. She closes her eyes, and for a few blissful moments thinks of nothing at all. 

After a while Danyal makes her sit up again, then pulls the wet hair back from Haleth’s face and twists it tightly behind her head. She takes something out of a bag behind her, and reaches around to show Haleth a pair of intricately carved bone combs.

“Mother gave those to you when you married Haldar,” Haleth murmurs, running a finger over the design. 

“Yes,” says Danyal, drawing her hand back too late to hide the fact that it is shaking. 

“And they survived when the house was destroyed,” Haleth says, hardly able to believe it. Their shelter was built near the wall and one of the first to come down when it fell, most of their possessions trampled past recognition. 

Danyal secures the combs in her sister-in-law’s hair, and Haleth closes her eyes again and pictures Danyal dancing with Haldar on their wedding day. She wonders if she will ever see the other woman looking that happy again. 

When Haleth’s hair is secure, she gets to her feet and turns slowly so that Danyal can examine her from all sides. Her sister tugs on the vest to straighten it a little, then nods in solemn approval - Haleth looks as presentable as she possibly can, under the circumstances. 

“Do you have a plan?” Danyal asks quietly. 

“I’ll find out what he wants. I’ll see what aid I can get for our people - they’ve been generous with their healers, and with the food they have, but everyone here needs more than field rations if we’re to survive. And you - no more leaving to help, not for a while at least. You need to stay here and rest, and eat something.” Haleth places a hand gently on Danyal’s stomach. “You’re going to have this baby soon, and if you...I can’t...”

She has to stop talking then; she can feel her throat constricting, the words threatening to turn into sobs. _I can’t lose anyone else._ She closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths, pulling the tattered threads of her fraying calm back together before she looks at Danyal again. 

A strong, slender hand grasps hers firmly, and again Haleth feels as though something is anchoring her in reality, taking up some of the vast emptiness that is Haldar’s absence. 

“Be safe,” Danyal whispers, and Haleth nods, squeezing her hand once before turning away. 

She emerges from the tent just in time to see Haldan running towards her. He is tall for his nine years and thinner than he ought to be, and resembles his mother more than his father. The earnest, determined look on his face is almost enough to make her smile. 

“I have medicine for Mother,” he tells her, holding out the small cloth-wrapped bundle that he clutches in his right hand. “One of their healers gave it to me - he said she looked like she was in pain while they were working, so I told him about her aches and he said this would help.”

“Good,” Haleth says, nodding, and her nephew holds himself a little taller at this sign of her approval. On an impulse, Haleth leans down and kisses his forehead. “I have some things to take care of. Stay with your mother until I return, alright? If anything happens, if either of you have any problems, come find me right away. I won’t be doing anything that can’t be interrupted.” 

Haldan nods vigorously, his face very serious, and dashes into the tent, calling out to his mother. Trying to keep a host of worries from crowding her mind - about Danyal, about the baby, about whether Haldan will be able to eat tomorrow, about Miras and all the other wounded - Haleth thinks of the proud man from the battlefield. She will not let him get the best of her or take advantage of her people, weak as they are.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like it's important to assure everyone that Danyal and her baby are both going to be fine. The baby is a girl and Danyal names her Haneth. She looks like her father (and her aunt). I meant to include her in this story, but it didn't end up working out - she might make an appearance if I ever write about this family again, though :)


End file.
